That we are here / for a time, that / we make our lives./ carelessly, carefully, / as we are finally / also made by them; / a chosen companion, /a home, children; / on such conditions / I place my hopes / beside yours. A new love, a new / litany of place names. Powers made manifest, / amulets against loneliness, / talismans for work: a flowering presence? top sea changes 4: The wine dark sea, tides (1971; rep. Collected poems 1995,.255: Wine dark sea, for there is no sea / it is all a dream there is no sea / except in the tangle / of our minds: / the wine dark / sea of history on which we all turn. Poems,.255.) windharp (for Patrick collins The sounds of Ireland, / that restless whispering / you never get away / from, seeping out of / low bushes and grass, / heatherbells and fern, / wrinkling bog pools, / scraping tree branches, / light hunting cloud. (OHara Ireland Page 2004: link.) a flowering Absence, year by year, i track down / intent for a hint of evidence /seeking to manage the pain - / how a mother gave away her son.
Literary Theory and Criticism Notes, english Literature
In their cumbrous circle / the huge stones stand, / completing the plain, / attending the dawn, / dew on granite, damp / on a sword blade. Slowly, in moonlight / I drop on one knee, /solemnly as a knight /obeying an ancient precept, / natural as cattle / stooping in river mist. top process, the dead Kingdom I: Upstream (1984; rep. Collected poems 1995,.132 The structure of process, / times gullet devouring / parents whose children / are swallowed in turn families, houses, towns, / built or battered down, / only the earth and sky / unchanging in change, /everything else fragile /. Each close in his own / world of sense memory, / races, nations locked / in their dream of history, / only love or friendship, / an absorbing discipline / (the healing harmony / of music, painting, poem) / as swaying ropeladders / across. Mutability dark lady of Process our devouring queen; ibid.,.133. top bog royal, the dead Kingdom II: This neutral realm (1984; rep. Collected poems 1995,.136 Across the bog of Allen / (a sea of black peat, / our lands wet matrix) / showers mizzling until / over scant brush, /necklaced / with raindrops, our reward: / a great clock torn into /tatters of light, the warm. a new Litany, the dead Kingdom V: a flowering Absence (1984; rep. Collected poems 1995,.184 the impulse in love / to name the place as / protection and solace; / an exact tenderness.
End ( Collected paper poems,.81.) top a grafted Tongue, the rough field IV: a severed head; poem 5 (1972; rep. Collected poems, 1995,.37 dumb bloodied, the severed / head now chokes to / speak another tongue / As in / a long suppressed dream, / some stuttering garb / led ordeal of my own) / An Irish / child weeps at school / repeating. After each mistake / The master / gouges another mark / on the tally stick / hung about its neck / like a bell / on a cow, a hobble / on a straying goat. to slur and stumble / In shame / the altered syllables / of your own name: / to stray sadly home / And find / the turf-cured width / of your parents hearth / growing slowly alien: / In cabin / and field, they. you may greet no one. to grow / a second tongue, as / harsh a humiliation / as twice to be born. Decades later / that childs grandchilds / speech stumbles over lost / syllables of an old order. Allegiance, the Great Cloak iii: Anchor (1978; rep. Collected poems 1995.116.: beyond the village / herds browse peacefully / behind a barred wooden gate, / a warm Constable scene / of swirling shadows silence; / a rivers murmuring presence.
The whole landscape a manuscript / book we had lost the skill to read, / A part of our past disinherited; / But fumbled, like a blind man, / Along the fingertips of instinct. The last gaelic speaker in the parish / When I stammered my school Irish / One sunday after mass, crinkled / A rusty litany of praise: / tá an Ghaeilge againn arís. Tír Eoghain : Land of Owen, / Province of the oniall; / The ghostly tread of ohagans / Barefoot gallowglasses marching / to merge forces in Dún geanainn / Push southward to kinsale! loudly the war-cry is swallowed / In swirls of black rain and fog / As Ulsters pride, elizabeths foemen, / founder in a munster bog. Like shards / Of a lost culture, the slopes / Are strewn with cabins, deserted /In my lifetime.; The roads End,. Epilogue to The rough field. Our finally lost dream of man at home / in a rural setting! With all my circling a failure to return / to what is already going, / going, / gone.
Ancient Ireland, indeed! I was reared by her bedside, / The rune and chant, evil eye and averted head, / Fomorian fierceness of family and local feud. gaunt figures of fear and friendliness, / For years they trespassed on my dreams, Until once, in a standing circle of stones, / I felt their shadows pass / Into that dark permanence of ancient forms. ( Collected poems, 1995,.12-13.) top a lost Tradition, the rough field IV: a severed head; poem 2 (1972; rep. Collected poems, 1995,.33 All around, shards of a lost tradition: / From the rough field I went to school / In the Glen of the hazels. Close by / Was the bishopric of the golden Stone; / The cairn of Carletons homesick poem. Scattered over the hills, tribal / And placenames, uncultivated pearls. no rock or ruin, dun or dolmen / But showed memory defying cruelty / Through an image-encrusted name. The heathery gap where the rapparee, / Shane barnagh, saw his brother die - / On a summers day the dying sun / Stained its colours to crimson: / so breaks the heart, Brish-mo-Cree.
Poetry from Ireland and the world
Only the corpse they didnt disturb. Maggie owens was surrounded by animals, / A mongrel bitch and shivering pups, / even in her bedroom a she-goat cried. She was a well of gossip defiled, / Fanged chronicler of a whole countryside; / Reputed a witch, all I could find / Was her lonely need to deride. The nialls lived along a mountain lane / Where heather bells bloomed, clumps of foxglove. All were blind, with Blind Pension and Wireless. dead eyes serpent-flickered homework as one entered / to shelter from a downpour of mountain rain.
Crickets chirped done under the rocking hearthstone / Until the muddy sun shone out again. Mary moore lived in a crumbling gatehouse, / Famous as Pisa for its leaning g apron and boots, she trampled the fields / Driving lean cattle from a miry stable. A by-word for fierceness, she fell asleep / over love stories, red Star and Red Circle, / reamed of gypsy love-rites, by firelight sealed. Wild Billy eagleson married a catholic servant girl/ When all his loyal family passed on: / we danced round him shouting to hell with King Billy, / And dodged from the arc of his flailing blackthorn. Forsaken by both creeds, he showed little concern / Until the Orange drums banged past in the summer / And bowler and sash aggressively shone. Curate and doctor trudged to attend them, / Through knee-deep snow, through summer heat, / From main road to lane to broken path, / Gulping the mountain air with painful breath. Sometimes they were found by neighbors, / Silent keepers of a smokeless hearth, / Suddenly cast in the mould of death.
To this day i can / Taste his terror on my hands. top all Legendary Obstacles, a chosen Light 5 (1967; rep. In Collected poems 1995.217 All legendary obstacles lay between / Us, the long imaginary plain, / The monstrous ruck of mountains / And, swinging across the night, / Flooding the sacramento, san joaquin, / The hissing drift of winter rain. All day i waited, shifting / Nervously from station to bar / As I saw another train sail / by, the san Francisco Chief or / Golden Gate, water dripping / From great flanged wheels. At midnight you came, pale / above the negro porters lamp.
I was too blind with rain / And doubt to speak, but / reached from the platform / Until our chilled hands met. you had been travelling for days / With an old lady, who marked / A neat circle on the glass / With her glove, to watch us / move into the wet darkness / Kissing, still unable to speak. top like dolmens round my childhood., the rough field I: Home Again; poem 5: a severed head (1972; rep. Collected poems, 1995,.13: like dolmens round my childhood, the old people. Jamie macCrystal sang to himself, / A broken song without tune, without words; / he tipped me a penny every pension day, / Fed kindly crusts to winter birds. When he died, his cottage was robbed, / Mattress and money-box torn and searched.
Anthologies of railway writing and poetry
—from mount Eagle, in New Collected poems, gallery, oldcastle,. Meath, 2012; given on Facebook at eavan Boland, Inside history. Verse the business Trout, a chosen Light (1967; Collected poems 1995,.213 Flat on the bank i parted / Rushes to ease my hands / In the water without a ripple / And tilt them slowly downstream / to where he lay, tendril-light, / In his. Bodiless lord of creation i hung briefly above him / savouring my own absence, / Senses expanding in the slow / Motion, the photographic calm / That grows before action. As the curve of my hands / Swung under his body gender / he surged, with visible pleasure. I was so preternaturally close / I could count every stipple / But still cast no shadow, until / The two palms crossed in a cage / Under the lightly pulsing gills. Then (entering my own enlarged / Shape, which rode on the water) / I gripped.
the decibels increase, the scaldies mouth gapes open; head numb, coated tongue, cortex ends squealing, no thirsty drunk at a bar, nursing a hangover, manages such concentration. Daughter, dig in, with fists like ferns unfurling, to basic happiness! Little one, you are now nothing but the long music of the gut, a tug of life, with halts for breathing, stomach swelling. 2 On your throne afterwards bang your heels, examine your new and truly wonderful hands, try out, warm up, your little runs of satisfaction. Day by day they also grow, sound experiments in the laboratory of the self, animal happiness, the tonal colour of rage, cartoon attempts to communicate, eyes beaming, burbles rising. Best of all when like any bird or beast waking, you wail to yourself, with whoops, finger stuffed gurgles, and my reward for the morning, your speciality (after the peristaltic hiccup) when you smile and squeal with sudden, sharp whistles — o my human kettle!
Naturally, she longed for a girl, and all my infant curls of brown couldn't excuse my double blunder coming out the presentation wrong sex, and the wrong way around. Not readily forgiven, so you never nursed me and when all my father's songs couldn't sweeten the lack of money, when poverty comes through the door love flies up your chimney, your favourite saying, Then you gave me away, might never have known me,. Standing in that same hallway, dont come again. You say, roughly, i start to get fond of you, john, and then you are up and gone; the harsh logic of a forlorn woman resigned to being alone. And still, mysterious blessing, i never knew, until you were gone, that, always around your neck you wore an oval locket with an old picture in it, of a child in Brooklyn. —posted on internet by paul Perry in an expression of sorrow at Montague's death on 10 Dec. sybils Morning 1 She wakes in a hand-painted cot, chats and chortles to herself, a healthy small being, a happy elf, sister to the early train whistle, the bubbling dawn chorus along the wisteria of Grattan Hill. No complaints as yet, enjoying through curtains the warm sunlight, until she manages to upend herself.
Indiana voice journal : Autobiographical
What is wrong with you pronounced a young Ulster poet as we locked friendly antlers over a bourbon bottle, is that you have saddled yourself with Modernism. (Opening remark in margaret review of Helen Carr, The verse revolutionaries, in, the Irish Times, 23 Jan. 2010, weekend review,.12. herbert Street revisited, a light is burning late in this georgian Dublin street: someone is leading our old lives! And our black cat scampers again through the wet grass of the convent garden upon his masculine errands. The locket montagues poem to his mother ). Sing a last song for the lady who has gone, fertile source of guilt and pain. The worst birth in the annals of Brooklyn, that was my cue to come on, my first claim to fame.